A Resolution To All Things
by Cooking Spray
Summary: [The Magnificent Ambersons] An embellishment of that window of time George and Lucy spend together in the hospital before the arrival of Mr. Morgan, and the perks of being an invalid. One shot, GeorgexLucy.


**A Resolution To All Things**

**by Cooking Spray**

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**Disclaimer: Highlight address bar. Read carefully. Consult dictionary if necessary.**

**I truly believe I'm the only person online who has had any desire at all to write fan fiction for this novel. Admittedly, it was published nearly a century ago - but George and Lucy are the stuff of shipper fluff! And with that mini-series that was made in 2001, one would think we might have some converts. . . But that's my wishful thinking, again.**

**Anyhow, I couldn't resist writing these two. If you haven't read the novel, I suggest it - not only is it historically poignant, but the characters and events are very interesting (obviously!). For those of you unfamiliar, this story is set in the midst of the Industrial Revolution, so don't expect much in the way of modernity. Enjoy!**

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As soon Lucy's eyes caught sight of the headline, she couldn't help but stare at the words in print with shock, a fearful tremble growing in her chest.

A morning spent tending her little garden, which had become her fondest pastime, had been spoiled by the assaulting item. She had been rather pleased - under her green thumb, the buds were actually beginning to blossom, and to create the scene she so admired in the catalogs that she had delivered monthly. A little break from the heat and toil was all she'd intended, and now she'd ended up with a heartache.

Some words frightened her more than others, but the whole article was terrifying. Immediately, she was seized with the urge to go and grab her hat and order the chauffeur to high-tail her to the city hospital where "G. A. Minafer" lay in presumed turmoil. But even as this conviction assuaged her, she remained paralyzed in the seat of her wicker patio chair, unable to do more than stare in horror, mouth dry and eyes wide.

It was a prime example of one of life's great ironies if she had ever heard of one. Here was a man who had once possessed everything, and had aspirations no more lofty than the regards in which he held most common people. He had talked with great passion about "being things" rather than "doing things", and, as fate would have it, this presumptuous attitude of false assurance had brought his ultimate downfall. The age of smoke and steel had dawned, and left him quite literally in the dust, stripped of all that he once was. It was a pitiful but far too common tale, and one that rang only too true.

Rides-Down-Everything had finally been ridden down himself, and by the very machine that had brought her father so much fortune. His scorn of the metal menace that was hailed as the new traveling sensation by most of America was also what had caused him to spiral. If the incident had not been so grave, she might've been inclined to laugh.

Her original heartfelt thoughts of immediacy returned then, in full force. Through the months, she had consoled herself by thinking that she had made "the right choice" in her continued ignorance towards George. Indeed, his actions had been despicable; perhaps even unforgivable, in her father's eyes. She had set aside her personal feelings for what she believed to be the best path. But now, she was beginning to rethink her resolutions. Her fondness, still so close to the surface, was easily revived by the grim announcement she clutched in her hands. And the more she mulled it over, the more she became certain of what she would do, be it prudent or not.

Lucy Morgan, usually a woman of such strong mind and stamina, yielded to the pettiness of human endearment one last time, and went inside to fetch her hat. The drive to the city was short, now, and she preferred to arrive in a hurry.

When her feet touched the cobbled curb, and she stared up at the sterile and grim establishment that was her destination, Lucy's former determination had almost dwindled to fear. Something about the grim nature of the hospital building wasn't at all heartening - it looked like a place that promoted despair rather than recovery.

With slow, steady strides, she ushered herself inside, the distinct scent of antiseptic immediately pungent. She didn't have time enough to let the unpleasant feeling churning in her abdomen become fully recognized before an orderly approached her.

Her starched white smock looked hopeful, but there was a curious expression on her Irish features. "'Ello, Miss Morgan, 'tis a pleasure. How could I assist?"

Lucy was accustomed to being recognized, considering her father's prominence, but her usual polite directness seemed to have deserted her. Feeling terribly awkward, she voiced her urgent inquiry with a great breach of emotional etiquette.

"I would like to see Mr. George Minafer, please. Is he allowed visitors?"

The orderly's normally rosy-tinted cheeks blanched, but once again, her expression was given no verbal explanation. "Yes, o' course. Right this way, if you will."

As she followed along, Lucy had the suspicion that this visit would make her the belle of the rumor mill for quite a while, but this observation was fleeting, for her mind was almost completely focused on the rendezvous ahead. Nervousness was taking over her manner with loathsome speed, and she began to fret uncharacteristically over what she might say - and how George might receive her.

They reached a doorway, and the orderly's pace slackened. "Here you are, Miss Morgan. I do hope he's feeling better today; he's had a bit o' a painful recovery." She offered a tight smile. "I'll leave the two o' you alone for a time."

The room was rude and bare, and its scent was almost unbearably sterile. But there in the center of the room was the subject that she had come to visit, in a state that held her breath prisoner for a good moment. The tall, graceful figure that she remembered so fondly was no more - his legs were crippled with two white casts, and his skin had the pale pallor that was associated with the sickly. His brow was furrowed at an untold ail beneath a mussed shock of dark hair, and immediately this expression gave her a great wave of compassion.

Remembering to breathe, she took a step forward, no longer rallying her courage but trying to keep her emotions in check. The sound of her boots clacking against the floor alerted the patient in question of her presence, and he turned from his pensive examination of the world beyond the window to take her in. Instantly, his eyes widened with a heartbreaking incredulity, as if he hardly believed she were really there.

"Lucy?" he rasped, in a voice that seemed fragile and painful to Lucy's ears.

She could no longer contain herself. Her usual pride in flawless decorum was bygone, or at least for the moment. In the past, George had always been the instigator of such embarrassing proclamations and outbursts, but the intensity of her feelings had forced her into a more brazen role than she would normally assume. She rushed to his bedside with little forethought to whether this would be prudent or not, considering his delicate condition.

"Oh, George!" Her eyes sparkled wonderfully, and the obvious genuineness in her concern was more perfect than George could've imagined in even his most outlandish fantasies, which had been all that was entertaining him for quite a while.

Before he could say much, she had drawn a chair to the uncomfortable mattress he had been confined to for untold hours of agony, and clasped his hand in a fervor of raw concern. The chafing of newly acquired calluses surprised her, and only deepened her sympathy.

"I hope you haven't suffered too terribly! I'm sorry that I haven't visited earlier. . . I just read the article in the paper, and I came straight here. I. . ." The enormity of the words she struggled to speak appeared to overtake her, and before her eyes became overly glossy, she dismissed them with a shake of the head. "Never mind that now! Let's just sit like this a while."

George's head swam more violently than it had following the accident. Here was Lucy - tiny, radiant Lucy - visiting him alone, apparently of her own free will. The image he had so desperately clung to for countless dark months was presenting herself to him pristine and new - it was unfathomable. Their last meeting was a dark spot on his memory, and his brooding had long since turned to regret. The books he had scoffed at in college might've leant such appropriate adjectives as "surreal" and "dreamlike" to the situation. Even in the pit of his pain in despair, Lucy was the last thing he had expected to ever see again, even if he did survive. Was his luck beginning to turn around?

They spent a few minutes in silence, George hardly believing the reality of the dainty hand still clasped around his own and the knot of dark hair that threatened to pervade his pillow. When he thought that everything was quite believable enough, and that this wasn't another terrible delusion like the one that had put him in this state, he spoke again.

"I was thinking of you, you know," he half-whispered, his voice still raspy.

Lucy's eyes softened almost to the point of being unbearable. "Oh, George. . ."

He swallowed, and went on. "When I was. . . hit, I mean. I saw a girl, and I thought it might've been you. She was petite, and perhaps she was wearing a fur. . . I don't know. I guess I was a bit dazed, maybe, because I couldn't decide. I was still trying to decide when that silly car came and plowed me down. . . I never really saw until it hit me." He attempted a grin, and failed. "Foolish of me, wasn't it?"

Lucy withdrew her hand, eyes downcast, remaining speechless. George had always been notoriously awful at reading emotions, especially those of women, so he could only interpret her sudden distance as disgust, although he hoped he was wrong. It would probably only be what he should've had coming, though.

After some time, Lucy raised her head again, and now her unshed tears were plainly visible. Her mind quailed, trying with its all to give an apology suitable to fill the chasm she feared to have created. It wouldn't do to become a sobbing mess - she was made of stronger stuff than that.

Finally, she shook her head, wasting no more time in mental deliberation. "No. I was the foolish one. You. . . you did your share of rash things, too. . . But I knew that you regretted them, almost as soon as they were done." She looked him in the eye. "These past few months, I've been a coward. How many times have I been to the apartment to visit your Aunt Fanny, and how many times have I successfully evaded mention of you? I didn't want to hear about you, because I knew I'd feel sorry. I thought forgetting would be best, for both of us. At any time, I could've argued with my father to give you the help you needed, but I didn't. I was a coward, and I feel terrible!" She took a deep breath. "But now, reading that article, and seeing you like this. . . oh, I don't know if I've ever loathed myself so strongly! But I do know that I'll never try to forget you again, George. Even if it means quarreling my father, I won't forsake you with my own childish notions. . ."

George looked mournful, and his features were carved into a mask of such seriousness that they would've shocked anyone who had known him in happier times. "I deserved every moment of ignorance you gave me, Lucy," he intoned quietly. "That you even visit me now is more than I deserve. No matter how sorry I am, I still ruined everything. The position I'm in now is the one I earned." He closed his eyes and sagged into his pillow with the manner of a man thoroughly defeated by life.

"Oh, for heaven's sakes, don't be a martyr!" Lucy cried, her indignation flaring. She'd regained some of her old spirit. "You've made your bed, indeed, but you shouldn't be made to lie in it forever!" Her tone softened again. "What you did really hurt my father and I; I won't lie. But in spite of my grievance, I realize that, in that way you have, you really thought you were doing the right thing, and I forgive you. The loss of a good friend is something I can manage, in time. However, it is your absence that I find troublesome to recover from, for whatever reason."

Her eyes were compelling, and he wished that he could take her words at face value, and be contented. _These _were the things he had so ached to hear, all along - oh, if she had only spoken them earlier! Every fiber of his being was moved, grateful, even awed at her faith. She was showing the depth of her affections, ever so subtly. But still, his sense of unworthiness prevailed, and stopped him from wallowing in this unnecessary forgiveness. In his nobility, he felt miserable and helpless - no wonder he hadn't cared for the attribute as a youth!

"You're better off without me, Lucy." He dared not look upon her face.

She sputtered for a moment in frustration, and then fell into a stifled silence. Her elation at seeing George alive and breathing had given way to the harder part of the reunion - resolved as she was to right things between them, she also was aware that the gap was not an easy one to bridge. She had been stepping around it, but she would have to revert to what she had so avoided, in varying degrees of success, on all of those long carriage rides: brazen honesty.

Lucy's voice became muted, but the emphasis she put in her speech was unmistakably grave. "Maybe I am 'better off', as you say. Things are easier, and more peaceful, that's for certain." She laughed ruefully. "But I'm not happy. Surely, I laugh and smile often enough, but there's always something empty about it, and I know that the hollowness is left by you. It wouldn't do to have admitted it when I was younger - parts of you still gave me such anger, such disgust. I knew I couldn't change them, but I couldn't change my feelings toward you either - you must realize the frustration! Of all the times, don't be reasonable now. It pains me that it almost took your life to make me realize, but I'm finally ready to accept everything, the way it is. Seeing you like this makes it far too much to bear otherwise!" Her final words were bittersweet, parroting the story she had spun for her father a few days before. "You see, George, I had too much unpleasant excitement. It was unpleasant, at times, and always unpredictable - but it was excitement. And although I complained then, in the wake of that, my days seem dull now."

George was struggling. He mustn't succumb to the flutters of his heart, because selfishness was what had gotten him into this mess to begin with. He felt inside him a terrible division, because the half of him that had developed a humility and forbearance was urging his act onward, but the inextinguishable part of him that still desired the happinesses and frivolties that more careless men did was concentrating on the dark flutter of Lucy's lashes, and how none of her admissions had ever been more honest. In the midst of this terrible indecision, all of his bruises and batterings seemed to throb more keenly, and he began to wonder if there was a solution to this conflict that didn't involve more suffering.

Before the glossy quality of his temples could worry her, he decided that honesty, though poisoned by the bitter resignation his new life had ingrained into him, could not make matters worse.

"Lucy, dear, you know I've always. . . loved you." Stating the depth of his feelings outright was still unsettling. "And the way you're speaking now, why, nothing could make me happier!" For a few moments, he did give her a very intense gaze, and his eyes told her that he was not lying.

"But look at me," he implored quietly. "I'm all bandaged, and quite nearly broken. Right now, I feel the best I have in days - but the worst, too!" His tone seemed to take on an almost desperate rhythm. "I'm no use to you like this. Even if I do stand again, I would certainly be of no use to your father. . ." He smiled sadly. "I really have gotten my comeuppance, haven't I?"

Lucy's face trembled with what could've almost been described as fright, her face clouded and upset. But then she shook her head with surprising vehemence, and leaned in closer, clasping George's hand again.

"You have - oh, you have - and then some!" Her volume dwindled, but her earnest poise did not. "But as I said, you shouldn't have to suffer it forever. The "riffraff" you so scorned. . . all of those high society ladies who wished for nothing more than to see you fall flat upon your face. . . They've moved on! They don't care to see you languish any longer, and neither should you. _I _can't bear to see you in such an apoplectic state, either."

George swallowed, searching for a counteract that he was only half sorry to not find. His pulse raced uncomfortably, but he did not try to break the contact.

"What about your father?" he queried, voice thick. It was his last defense, and possibly the most formidable - and yet, he found himself listening to Lucy's logic with absurd consolation, agreeing just to be agreeing.

"It's true that he's still mourning Isabel, and that he holds a bit of a grudge for you. But I have a feeling. . . A feeling that he's beginning to soften. If only he came and talked with you, he would forgive you, I'm certain. He can't hold his grudge forever, knowing how dearly Isabel loved you." At the mention of his mother, Lucy's eyes probed George's face anxiously. His eyes darkened with sadness for a brief moment, but it was almost imperceptible, and she was fairly certain that the display wasn't purposeful.

Actively avoiding Lucy's gaze, George whiled away a few moments staring sightlessly at the wall. His mouth had gone dry. A portion of his being still felt obligated to live out his days in deserved and repentant misery, but this conscience was quickly being replaced by the optimistic scene Lucy had helped paint for him. As he mulled her words over, the more sense everything made - and the more surreal the world seemed, as he tried to sort out the exact gravity of what it meant. To be forgiven for the unforgivable, absolved of ill opinion, to leave the destitution of his current life behind for a new one of plenty, with Lucy at his side. . . It was almost as if he were under the influence of anesthesia again, living in those drug-induced dreams and visions.

Lucy perceived some of his overwhelmed state, and her attitude shifted from persuasive to tender. In a surprisingly intimate gesture, she swept a few strands of hair from his forehead, and smiled almost secretively. George, already aghast, appreciated her ministrations, but in his almost boyish confusion, looked rather like he had swallowed his own tongue. Lucy just chuckled benignly, and gave his hand an affectionate squeeze. She knew what he was going to ask next - saw the question forming on the darkly handsome map of his face - and she was ready for it, at last.

"Lucy, will you. . . will you be engaged to me?" He looked hopeful, and perhaps just the slightest bit frightened. It was what the dark little beauty next to him had desired to hear.

"Yes." The mutual feeling of jubilation that rose between them, both celebrating the end of "almosts", at that moment obliterated all worries, as love has the tendency to do. Presently they exchanged contented smiles, and neither looked away with embarrassment, for their rapture made them bolder and considerably less mindful of inhibition.

It was at this happy moment that their reverie was disturbed by the entrance of Mr. Eugene Morgan, hat askew and almost wild-eyed. Fanny stood just behind him, her own eyes tremulous, hands clasped as she watched the scene that unfolded.

Mr. Morgan's stared at his daughter and sickly George with an emotion that bordered on bewilderment, as if he were seeing the once imperious youth in an entirely new light. The two sensations were comparative, really. George raised his free arm in awkward greeting, struck momentarily speechless.

But words soon found him, stuttering from his mouth almost as hastily as his queer gesture of salutation before them. Things were transpiring much too quickly - only seconds before he had reveled in happiness with Lucy, and now the very man who should've held the most animosity for him had burst into hospital room with apparent urgency, scrutinizing him with an alien look etched upon hims face. What could he say that would make sense?

"You must've thought my mother wanted you to come, so that I could ask you to - to forgive me," he uttered lamely, feeling increasingly discomforted by Mr. Morgan's stare.

Lucy snapped from her trance, eyes laden with a great, unnamable passion sweeping across George and fixing on her father. She shook her head. "No, just take his hand - gently!" She almost seemed to glow, supreme in her joy.

Eugene hesitated, but then his demeanor softened explicably, and heeded his daughter's words. Not dutifully, no, but genuinely, as if the suggestion had been his all along.

When both of George's hands were taken, by both of the individuals whose company he thought he had lost the right to enjoy forever, a completeness filled him, and he smiled as a true angel would.

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In the months that followed, Lucy enjoyed toting George around in his little wheelchair - for once, she was given the position of dominance, for poor Georgie had to depend on her if her wanted to get anywhere quickly. She could tell that it was bothersome to him to have to rely on another person, but she could also tell that it wasn't a serious sort of irritation. In fact, she thought he rather liked the set-up, secretly, because it left them with quite a lot of time together.

Fanny had moved in, as well, obviously unable to support herself with George no longer working. But Eugene wouldn't have allowed her to live on her own under any circumstance. His "great revelation" had extended his kindness considerably, and Lucy was glad for it. He was nearly himself again, and it surprised her how amiably he and Fanny were getting along. She wondered about their relationship, but didn't dare ask - and in most instances, she was too preoccupied with her own to ponder the subtleties too hard.

On one particular morning, Lucy was strolling George along in the garden. Since his usual morning walks were out of the question, she had began to make this a new ritual. It had been going over splendidly. In the presence of a fresh breeze and some greenery, they seemed to talk more seriously; it was the same principle that had once guided their expeditions in the old runabout.

Their expenditure had been comprised of mostly silence thus far, with the occasional exclamation from Lucy as she discovered a bud that had begun to flower. It wasn't an unpleasant silence, though, as both were absorbed in taking in the nature that surrounded them. Countryside was a relieving contrast to the smog of the city, which they had been forced to visit yesterday, on the account of George's health.

Several minutes had flown past when George posed a rousing question. "This is sort of like your sanctuary, isn't it?"

Lucy laughed prettily. "Oh, I guess so. It kept me occupied while I was missing you, at least. I do think it's turned out charmingly."

George grinned with intentional mischief. "Did you really miss me so terribly as to plant all this?"

Her cheeks colored, and Lucy was glad that George couldn't face her. "I suppose so," she gave in shy repartee, laughing. "It's not really so large. I tried to make it look like the gardens they have in catalogs, but I assume those aren't anywhere near sooty cities."

George laughed good-humoredly, and the sound of it warmed Lucy's heart. "It looks mightily nice, anyway. You're always such a surprise, Lucy! Who would've guessed a city girl would have such a green thumb? What else can you do that I should know about?"

Poor Lucy's face now bore quite a resemblance with the bush of flowering fuchsias to their left. "Oh, probably many things, I'm sure. We women are a surprising bunch, after all."

Again, George's laugh rang, permeating the mid-morning air. It was a brilliant day - not bright and persuasive to such behaviors as frolicking, but beautiful in a subdued way. George seemed to be noticing the same thing, for he inhaled deeply and then impulsively took Lucy's hand, catching her off guard a bit. He enjoyed doing that, because she was really so lovely when she was embarrassed.

Silence, save for the chirping of a few birds, stretched on. Again, it was George who broke it.

"When do you suppose we'll be married, Lucy dear?"

Once more with the startling questions! Lucy had forgotten how surprising George himself could be. "Whenever you're back on two feet again, I presume. You're recovering quickly." Her last remark was almost coy. "Why, did you have a date in mind?"

"No, but why should we have to wait so much longer? I wouldn't object to a wedding in a wheelchair, if it means you get to push me down the aisle." He craned his neck back to give her a glimpse of the roguish grin he was sporting.

"Well, I suppose the photographs don't matter much!" she laughed, amused. "The only problem would be of how I would manage to lean down and kiss you!"

"How would that be a problem?" George queried, sounding genuinely perplexed.

Some of Lucy's reservations were returning, and her cheeks pinked again, ever so slightly. "Well, it would be rather awkward, wouldn't it, having to bend down and all? Not to mention the ridiculous contraptions a lady is made to wear to keep a bridal gown in place."

"Oh, I don't think it's so difficult," George maintained. "Here, stop a moment, and I'll show you!"

Lucy's eyes widened, and her blush was clearly visible, but she did slow down as George had instructed, though not without protest. "But George, dear, I don't think-"

Before she could finish speaking, a deceptively strong pair of arms maneuvered her form to the side of the wheelchair, leaving Lucy no choice but to stumble along. Without leaving her a second to complain, he captured her lips. It was a quick kiss, but it left George quite pleased with himself, especially when had the opportunity to examine Lucy's expression.

"See there? It wasn't hard at all!"

Lucy was completely dazed, wordless. She covered her mouth with her hand, where George's lips had been seconds before. The thought that it was her first kiss surprised her even more. Certainly, such affections were what she ultimately expected - but it was shocking that she hadn't received any until just now, after all their years or courtship.

Noticing Lucy's still vacant expression, George examined her with some concern, fearing that his little joke had hurt her somehow. "Lucy, dear, are you alright? Was I really that terrible? Come now, just push me. I promise I won't do it again until we're married." The thought that Lucy found his affections repulsive was a bit hurtful, but her own apparent displeasure had a larger effect.

At the sound of George's voice, Lucy returned to Earth, and a set of imploring eyes surveying her. She shook her head hastily, setting to right the misconception.

"Oh, no! Nothing like that."

George heaved a sigh of relief, and then grinned. "So it was good, then?"

Color that had never fully receded rushed back into Lucy's cheeks with a vehemence. To occupy her sights with something that wasn't her entirely too handsome husband-to-be, she began pushing the wheelchair again.

It was only when they had settled into a comfortable speed that Lucy gave George his answer.

"I think our wedding should be soon, after all," she whispered, as a trellis of creeping myrtle greeted them.

George just threw his head back and laughed. "You, Miss Morgan, are too much!"

From somewhere in the vicinity of a certain clump of trees that shaded a swing, her father agreed, a smile on his face.

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**I'm really rather proud of this, and I had such fun writing it. The more "flowery" dialogue wasn't at all hard to slip into, either. This is how I imagine things ended up, since the book's ending is rather ambiguous. And of course it's a 'shipper's point of view - How could I continue without letting Lucy and George come to terms?**

**If someone actually reads this that is familiar with the source material, I'll be surprised.**


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